Let Me Kiss You In The Pouring Rain
by LITERALLYLEN
Summary: Honest to God bares his teeth, as if he were the incarnation of the big bad wolf, and apparently Stiles—with his worn, red hoody—taking up the mantel of little red riding hood.( But yeah,,that'd be a lot more intimidating if Stiles didn't know that Derek had the most adorable pair of bunny teeth in the world hiding beneath that snarl.)


**Let Me Kiss You Hard In THe Pouring Rain**

 **..**

 **Chapter 1**

 **..**

Light pans across the modest kitchen, shadows dancing atop the honey and sugar splattered countertop.

"Maybe it's for the best sweetheart," Claudia offers as she pushes back a stray strand from her artfully swept back bun, a hairstyle she always sports whenever she's focussing particularly hard on something. The task at hand being the imitation of some sort of old Polish dessert by Stiles' babcia that Claudia insisted upon making for the Deputies Ball this year. It's stiles' dad's ten year anniversary of being on the force, and Stiles has caught wind that they intend on asking him to run to replace old man Henke for the role of sheriff, and well the Stilinski household has been abuzz with the excitement ever since. "I mean I'm sure Scott is ecstatic to be spending time out of the country."

"Yeah, I guess," Stiles grouses, squeezing roughly on the small, diamond shaped piece of doe in his palm. "it's just…It's not fair that he gets to drag his ass back here—"

"Mieczyslaw Stilinski, language!" Stiles may or may not wince at the use of his birth name. (Because seriously what a mess."

"Okay, sorry, sorry. I meant, It's not fair for Scott's dad to drag his butt back here and pretend like he gives a poop about Scott or his mom." Stiles has on one of his sulkiest pouts, and he knows it. But he really can't find it in himself to care. Scott was the first real friend Stiles had ever made on his own, negating the arbitrary playdates that friendly parents always seemed to force their kids into in hopes that they'd follow in their predecessors footsteps.

Being a fresh face in Mrs. McKenna's first grade class—Because apparently knowing your ABCs backwards and being able to execute double digit subtraction in your head warrants one to skip right over K5 and right into a whole knew cesspool of booger picking, taunt happy kids,) made it so Stiles spent the whole morning of his first day sad and lonely, which mostly manifested as Stiles dodging spit balls by Jackson whittemore's fat face, and trying his hardest to portal himself into his mother's high school English class by sheer force of will. (Seriously what was the point of these ~special magical powers~ that his mama always told him their family withheld if it couldn't help him do important and cool things like apperation.)

Eventually, lunch time struck, and rather than dejectedly nibbling at his PB and J sandwich as originally planned, Scott offered to trade his carrot sticks for Stiles's' apple slices—And well he was all big puppy dog eyes, and a megawatt smile. The pair have been inseparable sense,

so yeah, it really grinds Stiles' gears watching supreme ass face himself, Agent McCall, sauntering back into his bro's life with some last ditch effort of taking Scott and his mom back to Mexico to "get a hold of their roots," and "renew their family unity." It's definitely not because the sudden McCall family holiday has effectively made it so Stiles has been stranded for the majority of the summer. (Okay so maybe a little because of that—But not mostly, honest. eighty/twenty at worst.)

But really, leave it to Douche McCall to pick this summer to actually try at being a father.

This is the summer of their freshman year, the last before Stiles and Scott embark on the looming threat of high School—A practice trial of sloppy make out parties, and getting buzzed off cheap wine coolers swiped from someone's parent's licker cabinet. This was suppose to be their last real chance at being wild youths causing mischief for no reason but the simple fact that they're bored and can get away with it with the flapping of their lashes and mumbles of half hearted apologies. They were suppose to be kings. but suddenly the idea of ruling their little corner of the universe didn't seem as appealing to Stiles as it could've been alongside his impossibly dorky, and far too lovable best friend—One with the pension of getting asthma attacks at the most inopportune of times, and who holds the pesky habit of trusting people at their word no matter what their past may prove otherwise. (Stiles is so totally not still sulking over the prank that shall not be named that Jackson pulled off just cause Scott is way to obliviously forgiving, loves bunnies more than anything else, and has always ben enthralled by anything and everything that sparkles. Stiles is so completely over it, even if he still shakes off residual specs of glitter from regions he's sure were covered up by clothing…)

Claudia eyes stiles in that way that convinces him that she could read his mind, and isn't very impressed.

Stiles like's that she can do that, likes that it's something she can still do—That she never forgets just how to read him—hopes that it's one thing she could never forget.

"I know darling, but that's for Scott and Mrs. McCall to deal with."

"So we're suppose to just sit back and let them get hurt again?" Stiles gapes in disbelief.

Claudia clucks her tongue and moves to kneel before Stiles, a gleam of smothered amusement in her caramel eyes. "Oh, Slonko/Słoneczko sometimes we're just meant to fall back in the sidelines and let the ones we love make their own choices."

"But Scott's my best friend!" He flails indignantly.

"And you know how you prove that baby boy? By being there when those choices may not turn out in his favor—Best friends stick by each other's side no matter what, especially when it's the most difficult and their the most sad—It's up to this those who love and care for us to make us smile through the hurt, until it's genuine again."

"Hesitantly, Stiles nods, because he might kind of get it…It's like the time when his gecko past away and his parents distracted him so much with trips to his favorite water park and a whole weekend's worth of new comics, that eventually a whole month past by without a single tear was shed over his beloved Dobby. (Hey, it was the closest thing that Stiles would ever get to an actual house elf, even though his mom tells him he's basically the modern age Harry Potter. don't blame his lack of creativity.)

"Splendid," Claudia crows with that impossible radiance that people always say Stiles had inherited from her. "Now come here and help me crack the eggs yeah? And afterwards we could try out that candle trick I showed you last week."

.-

Scott leaves on an uneventful Tuesday afternoon.

The practical brothers, (In all but blood,) promise to call every evening to swap stories about their days— Only thing was Scott is sure to have a plentiful of exciting and bewildering adventures about new places and faces and foods that he'll partake in while on his trip, and Stiles is stuck in their run of the mill town, practically drowning in the excruciatingly mundane and the persistent predictability of it all.

It's gonna be so freaking unfair.

.-

It's a miserable, sweltering Californian summer, made all the worst when the first weekend Stiles is forced into a three piece suit and squeezed into the ballroom of a posh looking hotel in the downtown of the city, a celebration for his father.

They declare Stiles's dad to be sheriff with the shock of none, and he accepts just like it was a role he was destined to take since birth. All Stiles can really remember for that night is his parents clicking together frothy looking drinks, and laughing and dancing with a bunch of adults he doesn't even recognize.

And stiles is really and truly proud of his pops, he is. But the thing with being the Sheriff's son is that suddenly every juvenile delinquent who he use to sneak into the mystical Beacon Hills woods with, and let off stink bombs in places nobody would ever suspect, abruptly decide that he's to much trouble to test.

So without Scott or the mild amusement of playing stupid tricks with lamos like Greenberg or Whittemore, Stiles has to be content in spending his days reaching the next level of Pokemon Blue on his game Boy, and pretending that he is so not jealous of Scott's Mexico adventures.

That is until Stiles' dad insisted that he grows some maturity, (And character while your at it kiddo," And gets Stiles some ranky dank job walking the dogs of their cul-de-sac. Which promptly found him here, in the middle of the Beacon Hills woods with Mrs. Crawley's pride and joy lapping around his ankles.

"Now sweetheart, make sure Yogi here gets a good run, will you?" Mrs. Crawley had crooned with the promise of a fresh batch of her glorious chocolate-chip cookies waiting for him just as soon as he an her pug get back from Yogi's walk.

Yeah, some really cut throat action over here. Boo ya!

"Hey boy, you wanna have some real fun?" Stiles asks Yogi while unlatching the leash from his collar. Stiles has known Yogi as long as he can remember, and he always comes to him whenever Stiles calls, so he sees no real problem with letting him really get to stretch his legs out and run around the labyrinth.

This is Stiles's favorite point in all of Beacon Hills. It's where his mom use to take him hiking—back before the rough coughs became a lot less sporadic, and back before she forgot her keys only once a day.

The way the sun's light refracts through the treetops, and the smell of earth and leaves and fresh air reminds Stiles of easier days long past. And sometimes he just can come out here—In the middle of nowhere—And can let himself scream and shout and even sometimes cry without the worry of having someone fret over him—Stiles doesn't deserve that kind of doting on when there's so much other shit swarming around.

Yogi barks in the distance, and Stiles curses himself for being distracted enough to let him wander so off track of the wilderness trail. He commences to frantically call out for the dog, and is sure that he looks like a chicken with it's head cut off— all flailing limbs and panicked outcries.

"C'mon boy, I'm begging here…Come on Yogi, I know that your dog tastebuds have some weird preference for little baby woodland creatures over Mrs. Crawley's yummy Chocolate-chip cookies—Probably because chocolate could kill ya huh?—but yeah whatever, I'm tired, and hungry, and Scott's gonna call my house in like an hour, because my parents apparently don't think I'm responsible enough to have a phone yet—A bunch of bull right, I mean if I can take care of a dog as rambunctious as you—Well I guess i did kind of lose ya—Hmm—I should probably stop talking to myself before someone thinks I'm more insane than I actually am yeah?"

Yogi starts a new round of barking, and Stiles chases after the sound—Trying his hardest to ignore the way the once cyan expanse has begun subduing into a deep violet.

"Damn it Yogi," Stiles cuts his gaze around where the dog's cries of joy had stunted, until he spots a bright tale waving only a few yards from where he stands, and he all but leaps onto the mutt. Though his mirthful exclamations of joy over finding Yogi are promptly cut short when the sounds of crackling leaves penetrates their eerily silent bubble.

"Ah—I-I've got a weapon," that's a filthy lie. Stiles is a hyperactive preteen who is prone to getting himself and his friends in more trouble than what should be expected of any child, especially one whoo's been saturated by the law since probably conception. His dad would be insane to trust him with one of those pathetic Boy Scout knives that they hang off their keychains, let alone a real god forsaken BB gun or anything of the likes.

But when Stiles looks up, it's not some ski mask wearing, dirty talking criminal glaring daggers at him— In fact he recognizes those impossible cheek bones—They after all were the sole purpose why he spent all of spring break dragging a surly Scott to the community pool instead of contently being plastered to their X-box as originally planned.

Derek Hale.

In Stile's's defense, everyone in Beacon Hills knows of the Hale's. Even if all the kids spend their summers in some snobby preparatory program in the middle of Neverland or some shit— somewhere the fuck away from suburbia— and the parents have this sort of regal aura around them that makes any sane person wary to speak to them outright.) They are after all the epitome of what small town gossip is drenched with. A large family made up of impossibly symmetrical faces and jaw lines that could honest to god cut limber. Top that all off with more money than any of them knows what to do with, and never getting to close with any of the other town folks. (Inviting people to their extravagant manner for Christmas Eve, then leaving months on end for lavish holidays without a word of their intentions— All the while acting as if they withheld all the secrets in the universe—

Stiles really doesn't know what exactly the parents— Talia and Nathanial— really do for a living. His dad says that Talia works in the capitol, that's why they're in Beacon Hills so sparingly. His ma says that the only reason they seem so mysterious is because people are just to scared to actually approach them.

"They're kind souls mieczyslaw, but people conjure up their own truths to try and justify why they're so opposed to actually speaking with them. Truths that are far more exciting than the actual reality." Stiles supposes that his mother was the only person to actually speak to the Hale matriarch with some mutual respect, and an ounce of normality, which is why they'd'd become such quick friends. Claudia was on track to becoming a professor at Stanford before deciding to move here to their sleepy town with his father, so Stiles supposes that in a technical sense she was intelligent beyond belief, but it was those rare moments, when she would espouse convictions she actually lived by in her every day life, Stiles thought she was brilliant.

None-the-less, the Hales can't walk around being that unobtainable and expect to be conveniently forgotten about when the gaggle of small town busybodies exchange surreptitious conversations about how Peter Hale is a washed up 90s pop star, or how they're just a bunch of beautiful people paid by the higher ups of the Church of Scientology to convince mindless folks to join their cause of finding "A higher power."

Only thing is that the Hales have probably resided in Beacon Hills longer than just about anyone else. Peter Hale gives off too much of a douchie vibe to be anything but just a trust-fund brat. (And the Hale's have never even spoken about any sort of religion, et alone Scientology. (Anyways the perfect genes were to strong, they were all definitely related.) So yeah, Stiles's mom is right, people just want some taste of the extraordinary, no matter what it takes.

But to be fair, Stiles is 99.99%sure that Derek's eyes are a blend of every color in the galaxy, and that's pretty extraordinary.

"What are you doing here? This is private property," Derek practically snarls, and Stiles swears he bares his teeth at him. Honest to God bares his teeth, as if he were the incarnation of the big bad wolf, and apparently Stiles—with his worn, red hoody—taking up the mantel of little red riding hood.(

But yeah,,that'd be a lot more intimidating if Stiles didn't know that Derek had the most adorable pair of bunny teeth in the world hiding beneath that snarl.) And no that's not a weird thought to have—it's been proven with vigorous rounds of painstakingly intense observation sessions that Derek Hale's slightly to large teeth is swoon worthy—you know if Stiles were a crazy prepubescent girl.

Apparently, as one who's never had an inkling of self preservation does, Stiles spoke the way Derek's bunny teeth prevented him from reaching maximum dauntitude out loud—And sure Derek is probably only a couple years older than him— three or four at most—But the down right mutinous look he's giving him now makes Stiles wanna fold into himself and tell him that no one's home.

"Heyyyy man don't have an aneurism," Stiles raises his hands placatingly. "I was just trying to get the dog. Besides I'm pretty sure not even the Hale's own the woods."

Derek's glower only deepens and Stiles idly wonders how much prettier he'd look in 20 years without so many frown lines. "Yeah, but we own that," Derek says loftily, jutting his chin to the huge house behind him—And yeah leave it to fucking Yogi to wander off into the Hale territory.

"M'Kay, don't have to be such a sour wolf about it, as if anyone would be dumb enough to trespass your land on purpose."

Stiles almost laughs at how Derek stiffens—As if he'd just smacked him senseless.

"What did you call me?"

"Ayyy you know, like the big bad wolf metaphor—Jeez you people really don't have a sense of humor do ya?"

"What's that suppose to mean Stilinski?"

Stiles should probably start being terrified at how this kid, (all big ears and gangly limbs that he has yet to grow into,) storms over to where he stands—Fists clenched, and a set jaw. But Stiles really can't help the excitement licking around his stomach at the fact that Derek fucking Hale knows who he is. (Okay, so yeah they've crossed paths at least a dozen times—The Hales always attending any town hall or meeting held by the sheriff's department, and the fact that Stiles and Cora have been tentative acquaintances since they were six year olds at the park and she kicked down Jackson's sand castle because he claimed that the mote was to keep away any "weak girls."

But still, he never expected to even be on Derek's radar.)

"Nothing dude, it's just ya know…You're a Hale."

"DOn't call me "Dude," and what the hell does my name being Hale have to do with anything?"

His eyes flicker down Stiles body in an almost suspicious manner—as if he expected Stiles to pull a Dr. Connors and turn into some sort of mutant lizard monster thing right here right now.

You mean besides how your family intimates the town shitless? Stiles wants to point out, but instead just says , "Bro you really need to chill, I get that I'm tall, but unlike you, I'm all pale skin and delicate bones, so I definitely don't want to get in some sort of altercation or whatever."

Derek seems to remind himself where exactly he is, and falls back from looking as if he might pounce at Stiles if he made the slightest wrong move—The pathetic thing is that Stiles really can't say he doesn't miss the proximity.

"Whatever," Derek scoffs, plunging his fists into his slacks. "Just get out."

"Okayyyy, is there some sort of Del Orean back there or something you wanna keep secret?"

Derek's face goes very, very flat.

"Ya know like from Back to the future—It's a movie, about you know—Time travel and such."

"Oh, I know the reference, it just wasn't a funny joke." Derek clarifies with the same unimpressed, almost vapid expression he's been regarding Stiles with for the past two minutes straight.

"Right-" Stiles runs a hand through Yogi's fur to try and settle him down from his nonstop barking, and tries not to roll his eyes at Derek's surly attitude—But honestly, he doesn't really mind that he completely failed. "Well me and my unimaginative humor would love to mosey on out, but ya see the thing is—I have no fucking clue where the hell I am." Stiles tries not to wither at the snarl Derek gives him in return—But really did he spend his days practicing that in the mirror. (Along with his vampire brooding and smoldering eyes. (As if he's some sort of Angel understudy.))

Without so much of a follow me, Derek pivots around and starts to promenade down the invisible path.

Taking it as his queue, Stiles tugs on Yogi's newly fastened leash and follows suit.

"Hold up dude, I definitely don't have like night vision— unlike you apparently."

Nothing, not even a snort of annoyance.

Fine so whatever, Stiles is totally cool just staring at the way Derek's shoulders move just right in that too big leather jacket. No speaking necess

ary.

They part ways with a thank you on Stiles's end, and harrumph by Derek. (And honestly Stiles wonders how he can simultaneously be so enthralled by Lydia Martin's flawless disposition, while also practically lusting over that one, neanderthalesque grunt by the unfairly perfect specimen that is Derek Hale.) He decides that it's too much for him to work out, less he fries his brain, and it's just the charms of the unbelievably beautiful that has caught his fancy so entirely.

"I guess I'll see ya around?"

"Don't count on it Stilinski."

.-

Later that night, he doesn't tell Scott about the encounter with Derek. Stiles isn't sure why, it just felt personal and new and something just between them and the trees and sky. And he kind of liked that. But not in a weird crush type of way—just in a delicate potential friendship he doesn't wanna fuck up kind of way…Okay, maybe with a dash of the former, but just a dash.

Stiles does however mole over how defensive Derek seemed, and can't help but devise a plan to go back to that spot tomorrow and try and patch together any secrets the ever elusive Hales are keeping tight to their chests—Most definitely not to try and encounter Derek again…No way, that has no effect on his decision making in the slightest—not at all.

Okay so probably just a tad.

Stiles is a weak, weak man when it comes to matters of the heart.

.-

Stiles comes back the following day to find a peculiarly vacant front yard where children are almost always seen frolicking about, and an eerily empty home.

He thinks that the Hales might be the biggest enigmas to have ever enigmaed.

.-

"I mean it's just bizarre? They just up and left. Poof!" Stiles tosses up the stress ball his therapist gave him as some sort of technique to stave off any oncoming panic attacks. Of course it didn't work, so now Stiles just enjoys slamming it's stupid smiling face against the nearest wall. "Probably never to be heard of again."

"I don't think it's that strange man," Stiles could just see the pinched face Scott is surely giving him through the line, his designated Stiles is acting crazy but he has to put up with it on account to them signing a blood oath when they were seven to be best friends for life—stipulated in that agreement of course being that Scott would entertain the craziest of Stiles' whims—face. "They were never really obligated to tell anybody if they were thinking of moving or not," Scott reasons rationally, loud mariachi music pulsing through the phone.

"Yeah, but even my dad was surprised when I asked him about it, and him and Talia are like practically thick as thieves whenever they're trying to pull one over on our dumb ass mayor. It just seems really abrupt—like they're running for the mob, or some sort of drug king pin that they peeved off. Oooo! Or maybe Peter's the king pin and they got caught so they needed to evade the feds!"

"Ah, don't you think you would've heard something from your dad's radio about any underground drug bust happening in Beacon Hills?" Scott deadpans.

"Oh, point…" Stiles deflates. "But still, I know they're 's something weird going on with'm and I wanna figure it out."

"You think you could wait on your wild goose chase till I get home—you know so I could be mildly amused at how insane you're acting, and make sure you don't get yourself offed by one of Peter's goons."

"Oh , hey ouch the lack of faith hurts bro. Sometimes I wonder why we're friends," Stiles teases with another chuck of the stress ball, reveling in how it squeals with impact.

"Cause if we didn't have one another, one of us would so totally have been dead by now…Probably by extreme boredom over anything else, but ya know."

"The peanut gallery is full of answers tonight, isn't it?" Stiles snarks.

"What can I say, I've traveled, I know things you don't. I'm cultured now."

"Cultured huh?"

"Oh yeah, totally. I can ask where to take a shit in like three different languages, while all you know how to do is say no in Spanish."

"Touché Scotty Boy, but that's just cause my brilliant mind is to busy memorizing mathematical theorems and being an all around brilliant guy over learning languages for countries I'll never travel to."

"I think what you meant to say is that your mind is to full of shitty cheat codes for GTA and cataloguing every time Lydia Martin even breathes your way, for anything else to squeeze it's way through," Scott counters.

They share a laugh, and Stiles pointedly does not tell Scott how he's been fluent in Latin since he was like five—because apparently the supernatural world has taken up a dead language as their universal communication method. (Something that Stiles will never understand, but whatever.

All that matters is that he can read through his mother's old tome of the supernatural. "It's called a Bestiary love bug,) with ease. And that when he sets his mind on something, he rarely is ever deterred.

Hales, here I come.

.-

 **Author's Note: IF you actually let me know what you thought of this first cahp, i'll love you for eternity and beyond!333**


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